Chapter 8
Emma
I slept with Jonas last night is the first thing in my head as I slowly come to awareness with the light of dawn.
No, not slept with .
We had sex. We had fun, flirty, friendly sex.
Three times. Four, if you count him getting me off with his fingers.
And as I gradually blink my eyes open, I don’t know which part of last night is hitting me harder.
You’ve moved on and slept with someone new after Chandler. This was a good step .
Or there’s that other thing.
Oh my god, I slept with Jonas Rutherford .
This, I decide, is a problem to process when I get home.
Right now, my only problem is figuring out if we’ll be naked or clothed when we have breakfast.
And is that really a problem ?
Definitely not.
I roll over and blink in the semi-darkness, reaching for him like he reached for me no more than a few hours ago. Can’t help it. While I know there’s nothing permanent about this, that last night didn’t mean we’re involved , he’s been an unexpected friend.
I hug my friends all the time.
Having a friend with temporary sexual benefits is new, but I like it .
But I reach.
And reach.
And reach.
And there’s nothing but emptiness in my bed.
“Jonas?” I whisper.
No answer.
Wait.
Was that a dream?
I slide a hand down my body.
Completely naked.
Pretty damn satisfied in the lady bits. I’m wet and sticky between my thighs. My lips are bruised, my nipples are tender, and there’s a raw spot on my shoulder.
I definitely had sex with him last night.
The good kind of sex. Full-body sex. With multiple orgasms.
But I crawl out of bed and find my phone just to be sure.
Yep.
Today’s Monday. The past few days have gone by. It’s not all some weird dream since Thursday morning.
I turn on the flashlight and scan the room.
There’s an indent in the pillow where his head was and the sheets are crumpled.
No, not crumpled.
The sheets are a disaster .
I reach up and verify the sheets aren’t the only disaster. My hair is doing a thing too.
But there’s no Jonas.
Not in the bathroom. Not in the living room. Not in the kitchen.
“Jonas?” I head to the porch and peer around.
Still no Jonas. Not on the porch, not in the pool off the porch, not on the lush winding stairway down around the boulders and limestone to the beach, and not on the beach either.
I head back to the villa.
He probably went to get us breakfast. Even though breakfast has been delivered every single day.
Maybe a run.
Yes.
Maybe he went for a run and he’ll be back soon.
That’s what I tell myself as I prep hot water for his morning green tea— body is a temple and all that , he said sheepishly Friday morning when I offered him something to drink when he showed up to check on me after we’d hung out all day Thursday.
I grab the ginger ale for me.
My nerves are making a reappearance.
It’s silly.
We’re friends. We agreed we’d stay friends. That neither of us is in any position to start a relationship.
That last night was something that just felt so natural as the next step for friends who’ve been through a lot and both needed to move on.
But he’s still not back an hour later.
Or an hour after that.
I throw on clothes and head to the small restaurant that I initially avoided for not wanting to see other people, but where I actually had dinner with Jonas two nights ago, and I ask the hostess if she’s seen my friend.
There’s a small staff here. Jonas kept assuring me that they were very discreet and wouldn’t say anything to anyone.
She tells me she has not and asks if I want food.
I don’t have his phone number.
I don’t even have pictures of us together.
My insistence. He didn’t argue. Neither of us needs to be seen with new people right now, and I want zero reason for the press or social media or anyone to take more interest in me.
By mid-afternoon, I’m starting to panic.
What if he went swimming and got caught in a riptide?
What if he tripped on a path while he was running and chickens that aren’t supposed to be on the island pecked him to death?
What if one of the other guests that he insisted were people just like us who wanted privacy and would leave us alone are secret Razzle Dazzle fans and they kidnapped him to act out weird fantasies?
“He’s checked out of his resort,” my massage therapist tells me when she arrives mid-afternoon, as she has every afternoon since Thursday.
Theo went above and beyond with this resort upgrade.
Which is not my primary concern at the moment. “He what ?”
“Head down, please. Your shoulders are very tight.”
“He checked out?”
“I’m not supposed to disclose personal information of guests, but he wasn’t a guest here . And you were friends. I see you’re worried. He’s safe. My sister checked him out herself very early this morning at her resort and saw him off on the cart to the airstrip.”
Heat stings my eyes.
Was it all a ploy?
Was it all a game just to get me to sleep with him?
Is Jonas Rutherford a gaslighting bastard too?
I suck in a breath through my nose, put my head back down in the head hole on the massage table, and I do my best to not cry.
Don’t ever let anyone think you’re not worthy, Emma .
That’s what he said.
Don’t let anyone convince you you’re not worthy .
Was he talking about himself ?
That’s what I’m wondering when I flip on the TV late Monday night to live footage of some big gala where Jonas and his mom are walking the red carpet in LA as special guests.
Smiling and shaking hands and answering reporters’ questions about his divorce with a charming, regretful smile and a quick we all make mistakes .
I almost throw the remote at the TV.
I also almost throw up.
Men suck.
The magic of Fiji is ruined.
And every day I hide here, I’m getting more behind on work at a time when I need to find more work .
I have to support myself solo now.
And figure out where I even fit in my own life now that I have to face the fallout of choosing Chandler over my friends and family.